An Anniversary

April 12, 2013


In the candy store, the man behind the cash register was talking with a customer about a horse that just died. People talked about horses often there, and I didn't pay attention. I paid and headed home.  The walk was a long block to Fort Washington Avenue, then three more to my house, which was on the corner of Haven Avenue.  A few girls were playing potsy out front. They were singing something and laughing at how they were managing to keeping time as they jumped. I barely caught the words: "Roosevelt kicked the bucket, Roosevelt kicked the bucket."  I must have misunderstood. Could there be  a horse named after President Roosevelt? And why would they know about a horse dying, anyhow? They were just kids a year or two older than I was. I was nine. I hurried upstairs to get the story straight.

My father was seated in the wheelchair he occupied since returning from the hospital a few days earlier. My mother sat in a chair pulled up near the wheelchair. Both their heads were bent toward the radio. As I came in, my mother turned, motioned me over, but put her finger over her mouth, so I would be quiet. When I got close, the took me onto her lap, as though I was a baby. I listened with them, as the radio made plain that it wasn't any horse but President Roosevelt himself who had died.

A statement from Mrs. Roosevelt was being read. She asked that everyone support President Truman, who had just been sworn in. 

President Truman?  I always thought President was President Roosevelt's first name.

The rest of that Sunday was very sad in our apartment. My father took the news especially badly.  The next morning, he had to be taken back to the hospital. Eighteen days after President Roosevelt, on April 30, 1945, my tateh died.

So did Hitler.
 
Years later, when newspapers made a point of noting that it was the 40th anniversary of Hitler's death, I joked about that coincidence. Surely, I said, anyone else who died that day got into heaven one, two, three--because God must have been very busy with Mr. Hitler.

Jokes are how I get by.  But I know that there are still people in this world who miss Hitler. 

Maybe almost as much as I miss my father.